


The Present Now Will Later be Past

by vextant



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: A Screenwriter attempts to Write Fic, BuckyNat Secret Santa, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Missing Scene, Not Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Pre-Avengers: Infinity War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-03 05:49:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13334781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vextant/pseuds/vextant
Summary: Natasha touches down in Wakanda prior to the war for the infinity stones and has a conversation with the man who used to be the Winter Soldier.[Written prior to Black Panther and Infinity War.]





	The Present Now Will Later be Past

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stars_inthe_sky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stars_inthe_sky/gifts).



> Title from Bob Dylan's "Times They Are A'Changin'".

“Your hair’s different.”  
  
It was a quiet murmur from the end of the corridor that, in retrospect, Natasha doesn’t think she was meant to hear. She glanced up from where she sat on a surprisingly comfortable chair and met his eyes. Only for a moment, before he looked away. Neither of them moved closer or further from the other.  
  
“You got your arm back,” she said in response.

Stark hadn’t exactly filed a report on what had happened in Siberia - because when it came down to it, no one could really make that man do anything that he didn’t want to do - but she was very, very good at reading him. Between the things that Stark hadn’t said and what her escort had confirmed when she touched down in Wakanda, she knew enough.

He looked down at his new hand, gunmetal gray plates threaded with dull gold, and flexed his fingers. Glancing back up at her he had what might have been the ghost of a grin on his face. “Not exactly.”

Natasha said nothing. She leaned back in her chair, keeping him in her peripheral but otherwise schooling her face into disinterest. He didn’t move from the end of the corridor, not even shifting his weight from where he’d stopped in his tracks before. He was looking right at her; she could feel it.

The last time they’d been alone together, he’d tried to crush her throat - he would have succeeded had King T’Challa not stepped in. In D.C. he’d shot her in the shoulder, blowing a bloody hole in her left scapula. Before that there had been Odessa.

She watched him out of the corner of her eye. There was something different about him here and now. _Soft_ was the word that came to mind, but that wasn’t it, not exactly. He still had the edge all field operatives had, that trained stillness born only of experience. She had it too: it had been beaten into her, like him, and after all this time it still came as easy as breathing. It was just as hard to forget.

He was still standing there, watching her.

“Did you need something?” She snapped softly, a little annoyed. To his credit he didn’t flinch, he didn’t even blink.

“I need to talk to ..Okoye? Have you seen her?” His eyes flicked from her to the closed door she waited nearby. He already knew the answer.

“Meeting with His Majesty,” Natasha said anyway, nodding to the door, “Why?” It was not an invitation to come closer but he still began to approach.

“Need weapons clearances. She wasn’t in the armory.” The response was too fast to be a complete lie, although he seemed to be making a point of giving her more information than she needed. They were both guests of the King. Equals. He had no obligation to answer her at all.

He choose a seat two from her left on the same side of the hall. Good choice - clear sight lines to both ends of the corridor and the door, far enough to have time to defend himself should she attack. Close enough to keep her in his sights.

Close enough for conversation.

He wasn’t looking at her now. Just straight ahead at a blank space of wall right in front of him. There was no emotion on his face, but she could see the gears turning behind his eyes and suddenly Natasha didn’t know if she wanted to find out whatever it was he was working up to. Like this, dressed in sweatpants and a long-sleeved t-shirt pushed up to the elbows, he almost didn’t _seem_ dangerous. But she knew better.

“Any particular reason you’re. . . ?” She said, and he turned his head to look her in the eye again, “You know. Awake.”

Back to staring at the wall. He seemed to chew over his response, like there was a right and a wrong answer. Maybe he was debating a lie. Finally, he spoke softly but firmly, “There’s another war on. Wars need soldiers.”

That at least she knew was true. She was here for the same reason.

“It’s like I told Steve, in Bucharest,” he continued, “It always ends in a fight.”

The word she’d been looking for earlier came to her. He looked _tired_ , like all his years had finally caught up to him. It was a different kind of tired than just needing to sleep - it’s not like he hadn’t gotten plenty in his long, long life, in the ice or otherwise - it was the kind of tired that soaked into your bones and carved out your soul. The kind that needed peace.

People like them don’t get peace. He remembers that, at least.

It struck her then that she didn’t know his name. Well. Logically, she knew many of his names: his birth name, his Soviet name, his designation, some of his control codes, the ones deemed necessary by handlers past and the ones printed in the file from Kiev. But she didn’t know what to call him. She didn’t know what he called himself.

“They get everything out of your head?” She asked instead.

This answer was immediate. “I don’t know.”

 _Everything_ was difficult to quantify. It’s highly unlikely that they’d find ever find it all - all the shutdown codes, the triggers, the command codes they’d assigned to him over seventy years. They were all buried deep in simple words, in multiple languages. Even years from now, a conversation over coffee might have him put his fist through a wall or worse, a bystander. Natasha was not a neuroscientist and didn’t pretend to understand how the Wakandans could conceivably remove the effects, or even how they could know what the effects would be. Still, she found herself wanting to comfort him.

“You know,” she began slowly, without knowing where the sentence would end. “I know what it’s like. To learn where the orders are really coming from. You thought you were doing the right thing.”

“I didn’t think. I’ve been told that was the point.” He looked over at her with a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. It was . . . a joke. The Winter Soldier - the _former_ Winter Soldier was _joking_ with her. Natasha scoffed at him and rolled her eyes. She almost liked him better without a personality.

They fell back into a silence less tense than before. She hesitated at the words _comfortable_ , _amiable, relaxed_ \- and landed on _calm_. A calm silence, relatively. As calm as their kind could get. She didn’t realize how contently she settled into it until he spoke again, a quiet rumble in his chest breaking the spell. “Why did you do it? When.. with His Highness.”

The airport.

It was a good question, one she hadn’t thought to prepare for. By the look on his face, he was just as surprised that he’d asked.

“Why did I assault the King of the most technologically advanced country on Earth?” She clarified, mimicking the delivery of his tone-deaf “joke”. A deflection; it bought her time.

His forehead wrinkled, his eyebrows drawing together in something between confusion and annoyance. He’d answered her honestly, before. Clearly he thought that it had been enough to earn her returning the favor.

She hadn’t even realized he was hunched forward until he drew his shoulders back and sat up, crossing his arms across his chest. The left one was near silent; she couldn’t hear the whirr of the servos or the soft hiss of the plates scraping together at the joints. Not a defensive pose - contemplative. He turned his head and looked her right in the eye.

“Why did you just ... let us leave?”

She didn’t know. It was the best answer she could give herself, but something told her that he deserved better than uncertainty. So much had happened since Leipzig. Government threats and terrorist threats and blowing covers and aliens - _more goddamn aliens_ -

Her saving grace, the door unlocking and opening across the corridor. Both their gazes snapped towards it as Princess Shuri stepped out and bid goodbye to someone in Wakandan before hurrying down the hall.

“Ah, Miss Romanov,” King T’Challa said, stepping towards Natasha. She stood and he clasped her hand in both of his in greeting. With a quirk of his eyebrow he nodded to her hair, “The blonde is quite a change.”

“I’ve found it’s less distinctive,” She quipped, “Sorry to come on such short notice.”

“No need to apologize. I regret I could not greet you properly when you first arrived. Shall we?” The King gestured back inside the meeting room. She turned back to the chair two left from where she had sat, unsure of what to say.

A tall, proud woman brushed past her and offered a hand to the man in the chair, “Mr. Barnes, a pleasure. I am Okoye.”

“Ah,” he said, standing to shake Okoye’s hand, gentle but not weak, “Uh. Bucky, please.”

“Of course, Bucky.” Okoye took it in stride, setting a hand on his arm and squeezing gently, “I take it you have already been to the armory?”

It was a bit of stupid name, but it rang familiar. He’d called himself that in Berlin. She didn’t know how much influence Steve’d had, but she was willing to bet he leaned heavily on the old nickname for that reason. Still, Natasha allowed herself a small smile as she watched Bucky be led away.

**Author's Note:**

> Liked this fic? [Here's the tumblr post](https://vextant.tumblr.com/post/169552480886/the-present-now-will-later-be-past-vextant) for easy liking/reblogging, if you're so inclined. 
> 
> Want to read something specific? You can always [prompt me!](https://vextant.tumblr.com/ask)


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